Master of Masks
by WellINever
Summary: He spent his life killing; shut away from even the pleasure of emotion. He was little more than a machine when she came to save him, and though he was quite sure he loved her, the strings of his mask were forever tied.
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER 1**

4:00a.m.

Lying in bed, the ceiling twisted and cracked in the darkness. It closed in and swallowed her whole in bed. Things seemed to be piling up around the room. Reminders that her living fees were due, reminders that yes, they did exist and were well missed by her landlord, accumulated in the window sill along with various other expense related notes She pretended that they were letters from kind friends calling on her. She pretended she was too busy to answer. In another nook of the tiny room lay stacks of the imagined bodies of these feigned acquaintances. Over the past few months it seemed that every person she had built any sort of relationship with had gone astray- sour. She was viewed as an oddity, from first glance and it took just two months of light conversation and 'hello's on the street to cause friendships to unravel. All that had not left her was the box of matches she carried in her palm which she continually struck and tossed onto the street. Street monitors had ticketed her for this quite often. Those bills joined the others, their bodies joined the others. In times of distress she went through boxes a day. Today would be one of those days.

She slipped her feet into the worn slippers she kept beside her bed and went into the next room to brew a pot of tea. To be at work by six meant everything being it was all she had to look forward to Her job was of service, something she was not good for, but because the establishment was a in a dark corner of the city, and attracted only the oddest of people, quiet people, writers- no one had questioned her. They neither liked her nor disliked her. They only took the tasteful entertainment form her trays and absently placed bills into her hand. She was part of the backdrop, her dark sleepless appearance blended with the deep purple walls. Mirrors wouldn't even accept her reflection. She was sure that if she tried nothing alive would stare back. Nothing worth looking upon met her eyes. Pouring her coffee a watery thought formed in her eye and trailed down her cheek. The thought of her life, endless it seemed, endless and lonely.

"Damn it!" He kicked his desk chair across the floor. Room No. 224, floor 10, had just awoken at least three other residents of the complex. Living in the nicer section of the building did not mean thicker walls. Rage subsiding, he sank onto his couch and gripped his hair with both hands. He knotted his fingers, knotted them until his knuckles were white and his scalp was screaming. Staring at the mess on the floor, he was searching for his composure through files in his brain that he rarely opened. It seemed that he was always searching for it and always would be. The air of the room was lawless, mad. Bodies piled up in the corner. Bodies of men that wanted him to die. In the middle of his room, cold eyes stared back at him; dead eyes still intent on destroying him for a past he was only forced to revisit. These accidents forced his past into every dim street corner and every alley within the known planets. Were he lucky enough to have a grave, his mistakes would surely follow him to it, perhaps seeking solace themselves. What was next?

He'd spent far too much of his life contemplating the next step of his plan. Far too much time had been wasted disposing of the things that could hinder his future. If this was the future, for him it was not worth living. Eyes stared up at him; cloudy eyes. He searched them. Sitting on his couch, he searched endlessly.

A dull thud sounded above her head. She stared at the ceiling, searching for some invisible sign to explain the curious noise at such an odd hour. Distracted, she began to pour tea strait onto her hand. A streak of anger tore through her. The burn was painful and she blamed the resident above her for this mishap. It was curiosity more than anger that drove her to inspect. She rinsed her hand in cool water, wrapped it in a towel then went to her door with tentative steps. She opened it with caution and stared out at the blue sky. Stars were a luxury and did not dare to show themselves tonight. It did not feel like a night for stars. It was a night for clouds, and that was all she saw. Even the scheduled full moon was in a shy mood tonight. The air of the night was still and tense. Dread crept into her through her hands as she held tight to the railing. A terrible thing had happened just above her head and she could feel it. Someone was hurt and she could feel their warm body crying out for relief, fading out and becoming cold.

Perhaps this was a chance for adventure, a break in the monotony of her life of serving coffee and ignoring the bills she could never pay. Perhaps if she stopped the warm body from fading she would not be lonely for the time it took to accomplish this.

Strange things were always happing in room 224. Staring at the door, she recalled a time when she had received mail addressed to this room and another time when she'd seen a man with bloody hands storm out cursing. She had been the only one to see this, she knew. Anyone else would have reported him for fear of having something disrupt their comfortable little lives. Her life was far from comfortable. The thought of a murderer in the room above her seemed more thrilling than disruptive. She stared at her hands. They were shaking. Tightening her fists to revive them, she tapped lightly but audibly on the door of room 224.

She waited. Nothing. She tried the handle and found the door to be unlocked. It opened a crack when she pushed it. No objection. Through the opening, she could see a man sitting on the couch. Upon seeing his face, she remembered the angry man she had known from a distance. Months ago when she'd given him his mail, he had nearly ripped it from her hands then slammed the door in her face without so much as a half hearted thank you. His eyes were ablaze that day. He had held her bewildered stare up to the moment the door shut. They were hollow now; he didn't even look at her. Something else held his gaze so she opened the door further to see what it was.

A sharp breath of fear sounded from her lungs and her hand flew to her throat. Her intentions of soothing a troubled soul dissolved into horror then fear and numbness. The warm body she'd hoped to save had not gone cold. He was consoled now, conversing through his eyes with the dead. As if it were an ordinary living space adornment such as a rug or table, a body lay in the center of the room. It was dead, cold and motionless. She could still feel the warm body crying and fading and knew that it sat on the couch, fingers laced and hands raised to cold lips, eyes dancing with empty distress.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2**

She lifted a lock of hair to her nose and dropped it with disapproval. She smelled of coffee still. It was in her clothes, her skin and even her breath every day that she returned from work. If she had crawled into a barrel of grounds and slept for days she would smell no different. It was dreadful. She placed her cup of tea on the counter. The smell was obnoxious. She went to have a bath

He watched the moon. 1:00 a.m. He had heard her door click shut more than 30 minuets ago. Standing in front of it now, he turned to face the handle he was holding. Silence. He was sure she had left. It was a Friday night, a Saturday morning. Perhaps she had friends to see. But this was not possible. She had no friends. He knew this and after weeks of studying her patterns and lurking on his balcony he was sure. Her work hours were easy enough to learn and he'd done well to memorize them over the weeks. She was never off before four and always had at least a three day weekend. Now was a reasonable hour to accomplish what he had been waiting to do. People were sleeping and the skies were dark. He opened the door by means of a metal wire which he snaked through the keyhole then stepped silently into the room. It was dark and still, the scent of tea hanging in the air.

Everything in the room seemed to have an odd sort of organization to it. There was a chair in the first room which distantly accompanied a table and bookshelf. On the table was a basket, brimming with clothes. He rummaged through them. They were sweet with the smell of coffee and sweat. Perhaps she was doing laundry, he considered and she would be back shortly. The bookshelf caught his eye and he swept over it with a glance. Empty. Everything seemed empty. No possessions, no decorations. It was all in the clothes. He released a handful of the oddly scented cloth back into the basket. She was a creative soul. He went into her bedroom and turned on the light. He began to develop an idea of her personality. The walls were hung with long draping cloth of different colors and patterns all throughout the rooms, even covering doorways. All were dark in color making this particular room feel small. Still, there were no possessions. He sat on the end of her bed and stared into the short hall that led to the living room. "What is it like to be you…" his mind narrowed. The cloth walls began to close in and spin around him. Sleeping was lonely. She slept alone always. She dreamed alone; nightmarish dreams he concluded from the boxes of herbal tea and sleeping pills which took the place of any lamp or alarm clock. Poorly mixing herbs and medication did well to make on fall into a deep sleep. Once there, you were trapped by the imaginary hell caused by the chemicals.

He could feel the imprint of her routines. Every night she would sit on the kitchen counter tapping her gingers, swinging her feet while across from her a cup of hot tea sat steeping with a saucer covering it. She favored orange; it was the only other scent in the entirety of the apartment, though it was quite faint in all rooms but hers where stood most prominent over the coffee. She didn't drink coffee at home. He ran his fingers along the patterned quilted into her wine colored be spread. He recalled the texture of her clothes. Silky.

His mind was lost with this new information when he heard it; the sharp intake of breath usually accompanied by a diving scream. He looked up to see her standing at the end of the hallway, hand to her throat, eyes wide as saucers. "You gave me quite a fright sir. How did you get in? Is everything alright?" he had expected more of a shock from her such as the scream that never came. She simply disappeared then, into the bathroom with no reply. "I'm almost surprised to see you." Her voice was muffled through the door and the layer of cloth that covered it.

"I dreamed of you." This sparked no emotion in his voice. It was as absent and cold as it had ever been.

"Well that's quite flattering love," she said, tone converse to reply.

"No. It isn't."

She could not feel reprimanded by his tone. "Oh really, and why is that?" She stepped out of the bathroom.

He looked at her, now partially dressed. She had put on her pants from earlier that day when he had watched her leaver her room. They were quite a curiosity, all dirty and torn, quite different from the dark, silky dress she chose to sleep in which she now wore under a sweater. He watched her without a hint of passion. She was all wine and silk. "Just like before then, love? Well you've already had a seat so I suppose I'll take mine." At this she sat near her pillow, his back to her, and waited for him to speak.

"You smell like orange tea. I dreamed I killed you." He felt no relief in telling her. "I thought you'd be dead when I woke." She said nothing. He looked up into the mirror on her wall to see her face. For a moment she held his inquiring stare then twitched a smile and broke the contact he had been so grateful to have. Her nervousness crushed him but he found it impossible to show on his face.

"Is there anymore, love?" She uncrossed her arms and sat up straight.

"No. No, not at all." At that he gave up, taking his eyes away from her reflection and began studying the fluttering ceiling. Its sections of fantastic clothe billowed and hung like the sails of some foreign ship. Scattered gold patterns and brushed velvet textures convinced his eyes that he was in a distant exotic place, the room of a courtesan or card seer.

"No need to worry, eh?" Her voice was normal; no distress was present. Perhaps his words had loosened their grip. "I'll be gone soon, to some place where you won't likely find me." She smiled. "I don't know quite where it is, myself."

"Is it because of what I've told you." His voice was unbiased as to how she answered.

She considered confirming this. What did it matter to this robotic man; this person who no emotions past anger and absence? Why she chose to leave was her affair and she found his question to be more of an accusation of distrust. "Well no love, I've made this decision far before just now. No, I simply cannot manage it. I live alone, work as one. I have only one job because of new regulations and my hours are hardly efficient- I simply cannot dream of being able to stay her any longer."

"You can't leave," he spat the words, his most prevalent emotion betraying him. Although veiled, it shone easily through his forced personality.

The corner of her lip twitched but not into a smile. It seemed to her that he was ignoring the situation which he was more than well aware of. "It's not that simple," she said, moving a strand of hair from in front of her eye. "I don't want to leave, you know."

"Then don't." He stood: an act of defiance to her words. In righting himself he had thrown a blanked of dominance over the small conversation. The veil had lifted fully from his anger but dropped again suddenly like a curtain on a broken rope. He took a new seat beside her and did not speak again for a long time.

She touched the corner of his eye. Thoughts of the future were streaming down his face which held no allusion to what he was feeling. His muscles were still relaxed and not a single knit appeared in his brow. "I'll pay your expenses or you can live with me. You will have your own room. We will live the same and converse the same as we do now. It will be no different." His tone was wistful and his eyes dull. "I'll take care of you. Even if you choose to stay for your own benefit, please feel no regret in doing so." He sounded as if he were making a business arrangement. Everything about him held an air of profession, although she was clueless to his what he did for work. She assumed it to be profitable. This aroused her curiosity. A man that killed people, a man that was hardened to any thought of displaying a positive emotion could not possible work with people; could never have a normal job. Inwardly she sighed.

"Excuse me love." He stood so that she could as well. In the living room she found a comfortable pair of sleeping shorts and a robe, then, after placing her dirty clothes on the table beside her clean laundry, she returned to her room. He was still standing when she saw him, looking up at the patterned ceiling with a vague expression. "Let's go to sleep, hm?" Her nervousness had dissipated and she smiled at him with all of the serenity she had compiled on her return to the room where she intended to spend the night with a man that dreamed of killing her. She pulled back the blankets on both sides of the bed and took her place.

"Promise me you will consider it." He said while loosening his collar and crossing the room to his side of the bed.

She glanced at him and he understood to turn off the light. "It is considered, love."


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER 3**

Brutality entered his dreams with spindly fingers, probing the darkest parts of his mind for what would disturb him most in his sleep. Crunching; sickening, monstrous and grotesque, echoed within his thoughts. His eyelids twitched, his entire body convulsing as if to escape the confusion in his mind. In his dream he could finally determine the noise's source. Looking down at his hand, he held a strong cleaver, bloodied and disgusting with the ruins of whatever it was that he'd been hacking up. His once white sleeve cuffs peeked out from his coat, now a brilliant red that mimicked the color of wine. He could see lying about the counter, fingers, hands, bits of severed arms and legs. The horrific smell of internal organs radiated from the disheveled remains of a woman's torso, which lie ripped open at the stomach on the counter top before him. Turning his head to the side, he vomited on the floor then stood cringing at the red puddle, wanting anything but to return his eyes to the lurid scene. It was such a mess, unusually chaotic for his normal work, and he knew in a moment that this was not disposal, it was destruction as if whoever he was dismembering in such a horrible fashion was not a common enemy but something more, something he wanted to erase, torture even, something that disgusted him.

Turning back to his project, he found this theory to be impossible, having recognized her face and not without fond thoughts. The body was whole again, lying on the counter still ripped open at the gut, cheeks slashed, arms cut in crisscrosses over the burn of a rope, bruised and bloody, dead and desecrated. This sudden reassemble seemed normal in his dream, as if he would be pleased to have the privilege of dismembering the body once more. But it was all so impossible. He touched the slashed cheeks of the woman, then stroked her bloody matted hair, struggling all the while to relieve his lips of her name but they would not take any sensible form. He felt as if he were sputtering indecipherable nonsense each time he tried. Becoming increasingly frustrated with his inability to speak, he raised his cleaver and let it fall with an obscene crunch onto her ribs. A scream sounded from her gaping, disfigured mouth and he countered it with a noise equally bloodcurdling, raising his cleaver once more to silence her. Blood and flesh splattered his face as his cleaver fell again and again.

"Tell me your name," he screamed in an unearthly voice. "I want to know it!" Fingers exploded onto the kitchen floor like bloody fireworks. "I've never known it!" His hands waited for no reply but continued hacking away evermore violently. Her broken voice filled his head but no movement came from her gaping mouth.

"You're the devil, you're the devil, you're the devil." A light then opened up beyond the kitchen, across the living room, white and brilliant, and a cold wash of air swept into the room then was shut out along with the light. It was then he noticed that he was not in his own apartment, but the apartment of his neighbor, his neighbor who lay in a bloody soup on the counter top. However there she was before him, brushing off the morning snow from her coat, fiddling with the heat setting on the wall thermostat. She removed her coat, flashing him a radiant smile, then tossed it onto a chair and hurried into the kitchen as if she were excited to see him. She hugged his arm, studying his work on the counter with no sign of surprise or disgust. The cleaver fell from his hand and somewhere glass shattered.

"Careful," she said moving across the kitchen. "Let me clean it, I wouldn't want you to cut yourself." He looked at her dumbly, holding his gory hands in front of him like a freshly sterilized surgeon. She moved past him as if he were a ghost, setting a damp cloth over the pool of spilled wine and glass shards.

"What are you talking about? Move away from there!" he said urgently, grabbing her clean white wrist with his blood covered hand. But looking at the counter now, it was not possible for her to see what he had done to her just moments before she'd arrived. He released her. Every bit of gore had been wiped away leaving the tile counter shining like black onyx. He looked suddenly at his hands expecting them to be clean as well but they were filthy with drying blood that cracked and split when he moved his fingers. His eyes shot back and forth between the woman cleaning glass shards and spilt wine to his hands then all round the kitchen searching for any sign of abnormality. He caught his reflection in the gleaming case of some shiny appliance just as she spoke, distracting him none from his curious discomfort.

"I'm almost proud of myself, look," she said, taking out a box of matches and setting it on the counter. "I didn't use a single one all day, not a single one."

He picked the box up absently as his lips formed the words "That's wonderful," all the while, never taking his eyes from the bloody handprint on her wrist which she had yet to notice. He returned the box to the counter then took both of her hands carefully in his, turning them over and over, inspecting them, prodding them. Real. She was suspiciously real.

"You wont find anything," she said disappointedly. "Not a single one, I told you, not a single one." She took her hands back and set them to work at pouring another glass of wine to replace the one that had been broken. "Here, take it." Her smile was weighing on him and he wondered if his blank, bewildered stare had stricken her curiosity yet. It didn't seem that it had. She continued to smile, glowing with triumph over her odd success of the day that made little sense, but in his mind he understood it completely. He washed his hands and sleeve cuffs before accepting the glass. The blood dissolved away, swirling into the clean, silver sink, but his skin and cuffs were stained permanently, he knew. Strangely at peace now, he took the glass from her outstretched hand and drank himself into a grave, sleepy stupor while she sat on the edge of the counter, eyes shining, smiling brilliantly between small sips. Heavy with the desire to sleep, he forgot her and plodded with unsure steps down the hall to her room. He sat down on her bed and imagined her suddenly, legs crossed, still seated on the counter, swinging her foot and smiling joyously at some far away thought that shone in her distant, sparkling eyes. "You're the devil, you're the devil, you're the devil," she whispered in the same broken voice from before, the picture of her in his mind facing him with eyes now blazing and bloodied, her joyous smile replaced by one twice the size that revealed all the teeth she possessed. His lips parted but he couldn't speak and the image faded leaving him horrified and nervous of the dark room. But his weariness prevailed and he fell onto the bed with shallowing breath, failing vision, and a hollow, accusing voice urging him gently to acknowledge what he was.

His eyes opened. Billowing gold patterned sails fluttered above his head. Something crinkled and crunched near him. He sat up and found a piece of paper folded in half and quite wrinkled from his restless sleep. Opening it hear read. "My work hours are six to five today. I am still unsure of your offer, I am sorry. Let's not speak of it again." He closed the letter. Why she wanted to ignore the change was obvious. She was not used to accepting charity. That is why se was struggling. He sat for a moment then exhaled deeply. It was 8:03 a.m.

She forgot about him as soon as he stepped into work but her walk had given her time to ponder this new world she was entering. This new friend was quite a curiosity. If hollowness were water he was drowning in it. His core was everything but dense and repressed. He was a magician of sorts, a master of masks, or perhaps a coward whose only control was that of emptiness. She imagined his face. Placid; unchanging like her monotonous job. She opened the door and stepped into the world that smelled of the home she was leaving.

Work was a fast paced dance and it only quickened in pace until it lulled finally to an end allowing her to return to her thoughts as soon as the door was closed behind her. It had been a late closing night, making the note she had left him inaccurate. The dark cobblestone streets wavered and rippled before her and she began the walk across town to her apartment. Dark alleys and side streets grimaced at her, their openings warped and widened. Windows lit up like eyes casting their glow into the damp streets, illuminating their emptiness and instilling uneasiness in her. Her pace quickened then slowed suddenly to a near halt. There were voices. A young boy scrambled out of an alley holding his cap to his head and looking back a s if he had been cast out into the open unwillingly. "Hey you!" he called waving to her. His accent of a lower breed was think and sounded distressed. "Hey you miss! Can you help me? Someone's hurt my father! They beat him and robbed him!"

Her heart felt weak as the boy took hold of her wrist and began pulling her into the alley. He was lying; she could feel it. Street ruffians were always lying. They did anything to get your money, your jewelry, and anything else of value, profitable or not. "No, no. Release me this instant. Now!" Her voice was becoming shrill. She resisted and her arm felt as if it might be wrenched off.

"Hold her son." The voice came in a sharp whisper and the scene receded into the alley. With her free arm the reached for the opening to the street which was now a dim figure on her canvas of vision. "You're a fine looking one, aren't you?" the voice was thick and heavier with t the low accent. Her back hit the brick wall. She couldn't move. A dirty hand on her mouth robbed her of her right to scream for help. Small hands patted her down in search for anything valuable but she was smarter than to carry money on her.

"She hasn't got much, sir." The smaller fiend handed the older man the small purse she kept tied to her belt and tucked it into his shirt.

"That's just fine, son. She's got more than money." His sneer was a bleeding gash. "Wait on the street. I'll be out in a bit." The boy skipped away as if playing a game of hopscotch and whistling as if nothing foul were happening. "Now don't you go and scream." His dirty knife glinted in the faint reflecting streetlight.

"Obey him!" her mind screamed. "I'm going to die! Why obey him!" At that she bit him. Screamed and flailed until the knife cut her throat, failing to do any damage. Curses streamed from her lips but she could not get away. He held her arm with one hand, the other bracing him against the wall. She screamed once again toward the dim silhouette of the innocent looking boy. Her efforts were thrown toward him, her reward. "You dreadful wretch…" Her thoughts were composed. "When I reach you I'll slit your throat and leave your body to the rats!" her thoughts left her throat in a bloody scream her shoulder popped and her arm went limp. She ran.


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER 4**

With her movable arm she grabbed the handle of his door. It was locked. She pounded on it with her fist. It opened and she pushed her way into the room. "You're late," was the first thing he said. "Are you alright?" he inquired, following her across the room with his eyes.

"No!" she cried. Black tears streamed down her cheeks and he took note of the blood coming from the wound on her throat.

"What happened to you." His question was a statement. The door clicked shut. He locked it and went to her. "What happened to you." He took her by the shoulders and she gave a slight cry of pain. He noticed her arm and how it hung limp at her side. Together they unbuttoned her jacked and pulled it off. "Your arm is dislocated. What happened."

"Someone attacked me," she exclaimed though tears. "Someone pulled me into an alley and…" She looked up at his face. It was placid. Not a bit of surprise or anger shoed through even his eyes. "Can't you even show the slightest bit of concern!?" she shot. "I swear I could have died and still your face would look the same!"

Her words wrapped around his heart until it burned. "Don't you dare say that," he snapped, throwing her and accusing glance.

She could see torches in his eyes and cowered in the blazing light of his stare. "I'm sorry." With her working arm she wiped the tears from her eyes. "I should not have said that." She had to bite hr tongue not to scream when he secured her arm back into its rightful place. She thanked him, and though still quite shaken, made them tea then sat beside him on the couch. "He was a poor man, you know, from the north side of the city."

"Hmm. That does not surprise me." He stared at his dark reflection in the circling liquid. "Did he work as one."

"No, as two. It was his boy that pulled me into the alley."

"You did not go willingly."

She scoffed. "Heavens no. The ruffian claimed that his father was injured; a shallow lie. So I did not for a moment consider that he spoke the truth." Her words trailed off the page of her thoughts as her eyes fixed themselves on his profile.

"What. What is it."

"Oh. Nothing. Nothing at all. Just for a moment you almost had a pleasant look on your face."

He forced a thank you but made no effort to explore what he had done no matter how much it pleased her. "When you are ready, I will walk you to your room." He stood.

"I'm not ready," she said.

He sat. He had imposed himself upon her at odd hours of the night and so accepted her desire for company in the waning hours of the evening. "He raped you."

"Had he, I should hope you would care a bit more." She stared into her lap then at the wall. "He tried and I would have finished wrenching off my arm to quit him."

"I am sorry that I seem not to care at times," he said, continuing the fast paced conversation.

She scoffed a second time. "At any time, love. Your heart is a desert of ice." She laughed. "And your skin only buries it a thousand miles deep with nothing good to surround it. Just blackness. And when I touch you, even slightly," she brushed his palms with her fingertips. "I feel your poor soul becoming even more hollow and cold." Her gaze touched his eyes. "I'm sorry you feel this way. I'm sorry you choose not to feel."

Like an owl seizing its prey, his hand closed tightly on her fingers. "You are the only thing I feel, because right now, at this moment, you are beside me." He seized her eyes as well. "And that is only because you are here."

This confession held no bias and was hardly a confession at all. She could not resolve to smile at him, strike him, thank him, or scold him. "Would you like to rest with me tonight?"

He shook his head twice. "Tonight I should like to think alone."

In her room, she praised herself for leaving him with a faint smile on his face. She bathed in the sadness at being denied his company. Her emotions were numerous and not all of them pleasant, but she relished her ability to form questions that sounded like questions.


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER 5**

His lonely time of consideration passed torturously slow. Dusk turned to night, and night to dawn. Even in the wee hours of the morning did not go to her. The caring murmur of her voice beckoned him in his mind but still he did not go. Her fluttering walls that could not echo sill seemed to reverberate her desire for his company. But still she chose to leave him to his thoughts however damaging they may be. All night she stared at the ceiling hoping to picture him more clearly; lying awake in bed, pacing in his living room or standing by a wall that had no window. It was too much so she pushed him from her thoughts and forgot him.

However, it surprised her none to see his forgotten face casting its dull glow down the stairs from the ninth floor when she pulled herself home after another late closing. "I pretended not to notice, you know," she said and took out her key. "But it is difficult to ignore when ones fee's simply disappear." He seemed uninterested.

"Would you let me had you known."

She interpreted this as a statement and agreed. "No love I would not have."

"It is still dark when you go to work, isn't it."

It surprised her how quickly he changed the subject. "Well yes…"

"Then you will permit me to walk with you in the morning," he stated then began to walk away.

"Yes love," she said to the fading figure. "Yes I will."

In the final dark hours of the morning he met her at her door and they began their fast paced journey. She wound her arm through his and held tightly to her had with her free hand. "There no need to be in such a hurry."

"There's something I need to take care of." His voice was far away.

She looked at him in slight wonder then all at once understood fully his intentions. "Oh good heavens, you're going to do it aren't you. You're absolutely mad." She looked at the ground in front of them then straightened her chin. "Well, I won't be part of it. Do what you like." Her words came too late. The boy stepped from the alley.

Her companion pushed past him into the alley to seek out his father first. She could hear him take the man's life with ease and if it were not for the exclamations from his son, the crime may have passed unnoticed to her. "Come on love," she said, offering her hand to him with a strange feeling of composure.

"Not yet." But she didn't hear him.

"What are you doing in there?" She was becoming uncomfortable and impatient.

"Please go on without me. Your way will be clear now… in a moment…"

"My God," she breathed, cupping her hand over her lips. At that she ran away down the sidewalk.

With his hand on the boy forehead, he pulled him to his chest, holding the knife still bloody from his first kill to his throat. "Your death will account for everything you have stolen, every life of pity, every woman ravaged by your father and led out of their good hearts by you. And so it is for the sake of your victims that I end your worthless life."

She could feel him die and all through her day of work she was afraid; afraid that someone may have seen what he had done and that he would not be safely in his room when she returned. And when she returned she went first to his door, opened it, and began searching for him. "Are you home love?" His silence aroused a slight nervousness in her. "Answer e please." The kitchen was empty, he was not in the shower, and until this moment she had not dared to enter his room but the silence pressed her on. "What are you doing in there love? Are you asleep?" It appeared to be so. She sat beside him and touched his hair lightly. Things like this would always wake him. He didn't stir. She felt an odd air about the room. "Love wake up I need to talk to you." She shook his arm but he gave not sign of awakening. Finding it impossible to gather what was wrong with him she stood and began to look about the room. Everything seemed to be in place. Nothing was disturbed. His skin was still warm. She picked up his hand to check his pulse, praying that it not be weak. But as she did this something slipped through his fingers so she retrieved it from the sheets where it had fallen. A small dark amber glass bottle stopped with a rubber cap dotted with syringe holes. She recognized it as a sleeping drug that was no longer legal or easy to obtain due to how easily it could endue an overdose. It was empty. Looking into the waste basket near his night table, she saw the syringe. For the second time that day she felt her skin go cold, her scalp tingle, and her fingertips go numb. There was no one to call for help. Medical assistance was a joke in this age. It had ceased becoming practical like a high maintenance fashion. Exclusive and well expensed people became good at caring for themselves. There was only one person whom she could remember that might help in this dilemma; a doctor that worked out of his home in a complex a few blocks away. She'd visited him once before for a burn on her hand. She looked at her friend one last time and felt him fading in her hands. "You fool. You reckless fool."

She rarely felt like crying and found it odd now that she did. Her friends were always dying though, always shrinking away or resigning themselves to be as distant from her as possible. None of them had kept contact for long; and how long had it been? Almost a month, she gathered, and in that time she's grown so accidentally dependant on his presence. She struck a match and let it drop to the sidewalk. She took out two and struck them together. They touched the ground before their flames failed them. She struck two again, this time letting them burn until the fire dared to touch her fingertips. Tears came to her eyes and she tossed the half empty box onto the grass then continued onward at a quicker pace.

With her fist tightened around the amber vile, she knocked on the doctor's door. There was a reply of footsteps then the door swung open and the tall figure of the doctor stood stooping down to look at her. "I think I remember you." He moved to allow her inside. "Yes, almost a year ago you came to me with a terrible burn on your hand." He smiled. "Do I need to scold you again for playing with matches?"

"No Sir." She shook her head then presented the amber vile to him at hams length. "I need something to counter an overdose of this. As you can see it's not for myself and I'm in quite a hurry."

He grunted then moved his tall from through the room to a bookshelf being used for medical storage. "People and their dependence in these times… I wish I had an antidote for that and everything would be just fine." He continued to rummage for her request. "Just fine, indeed."

"Will he live, do you think?"

"Live? Yes of course he will live if we get to him in time." He held in his hand a clear vile, roughly the same size as the amber one. He took a syringe from a metal case. "Do you trust yourself to do it or would you like me to accompany you?" he asked, filling the syringe and capping it.

She swallowed hard and took the syringe from him. "I'll do it. It has to be me."

"I'm sorry love." She tossed the empty syringe into the wastebasket beside the other one. "But you'll have to be better soon." His face was unnaturally white and she couldn't bear to look at so retired to his living room until she could be sure he was awake. The entire situation seemed improbable. The man was an emotionless wall and was this his was of breaking? It was true; he'd never told her a thing about him. Even through the nights they had spent together in her room, he had said hardly a word to her, just lulled himself to sleep. There was no conversation, only a quiet understanding of his odd state of mind. She felt like crying then became suddenly angry and left his room for her own.

Her companion said nothing of the situation when he came to her door just past two in the morning. The sound of her bedroom door opening sat her up in bed. He walked in with great difficulty and took his place on her bed. He appeared to have trouble balancing and was experiencing some intense vertigo. A section of cloth had been ripped from her wall upon his interest and was holding his head awkwardly as if to stabilize it. "Did I… not fall asleep here?" He seemed to be struggling for breath. She touched his forehead.

"No love, you're burning. Take off your coat. Sit up." She helped him out of his layers and he collapsed again. "How are you feeling now? Will you be alright?" She stared at his placid face. "Love?"

"I don't understand the question." His voice held nothing. It had not changed. "I am very tired but I cannot sleep." His eyes opened and he turned his head slightly to look at her. "I had an odd dream. Please… help me."

She forced a laugh. He would not break eye contact and it made her nervous. "Did you dream you killed me again?"

"I dreamed that… that I was smiling at you…" He paused but continued to stare into her eyes. "You were crying but I couldn't react. I couldn't move or change my expression I just wanted to make you happy but I knew I never could." He stopped talking and watched her. Her lips were parted slightly and she blinked once.

"You…"

"That's all." He looked away and closed his eyes.

"You…" she struggled to speak. "You do make me happy, love." She reached for him but froze and dropped her hand to the bed near his arm. "But not when you…" her voice failed her and she abandoned her thought.

The air tensed like a strangled breath. Air began pouring from the vent on the ceiling, filing the room with a dull hum. The cloth section on her floor flipped in the sudden breeze and someone in the room beside hers knocked into the ball. His and began to trace the pattern quilted into her bed spread. "I'm very tired."

She looked at him with nothing to say. "Come on then. Your clothes are where you left them. Go change then come to bed."

He sat up with great difficulty then stood like a man made of rags and followed her request accordingly.


End file.
